HIGH ON T.H.C. — A THIGHPAUL — MANTRA .

What mark has all this has left upon me? I can only wait, I guess, and wonder what will be. Is it a crime to rhyme these days? I´m not exactly sure. Rhythm is the thing that sings ta-me. This IS Poetry: Spins webs full of spiders — waiting in corners for brand new borners, with little transparent eggs like floating heads, filled with rabies babies. Where he shines bright his black pupil eye lights and spills his f**king rite in all its; Naked Nervous Narcotic Truthful Delicate Soulful Delicious Humming Bird Moonlight Star Filled Curious Essential Lucid Languid Sensual Seagull liquid Spacecraft Alien Free Fall Flaming Phantom Phrasing Forms. 

These tracks get real loose too sometimes — And singing them to friends they drive us round the bend of thoughts till we we´re all comin and goin at once — but in the same direction — though no one had a map. So it is only the trip itself. Past behind — future in front and the present to be unwrapped. 

It´s a B‑reach birth bull whip. Whose horns I pull the mothers child out and eat the afterbirth that follows — that slops upon the ground with that spirit splashing sound — Inside coming out. Tasted I have, all things ´Paul´ then I hit the f**king wall with all that came before in the history of the uni — verse. And write this down I feel I must upon an inside page, for some other life, or some other age, so another world can hear it loud and clear. 

I am a Soul Fuel Alien. Turning stones for sacred scorpion stings, and all the things that had no wings, so I could build my own… Scorpions though … All shinny black and poised — about to strike. To inject me with the actual truth of poison — only source I´ve known — The exquisite Nirvana pleasure here is faith in long dead gods — Mature mutant mutiny from the vessel in which I have traveled to other planes — to other pleasures, other pains — beyond infinity imagination grains of floating red room dust that drifted in the air. 

Epiphany, these ´Episodes´ are dismantled into pieces like those pebbles on the sand — scattered on endless beaches — Each unique these songs are planets of their own that fall from my hand and are lost like stars in the space below. All tiny perfect ethereal spirits — we wander still — this grain which is the world.

But I just can´t fit or fix this hole — whole together — (you´ll see what I mean) Yet I´m crazy for answers from all the places I have not yet been — seen or even dreamed.

But I´m here — Now — and it spirals in my ears.

So — coming back to me — through these isolated days, with a frozen gaze, with older eyes t
make me cry tears that turn to ice — ´Limping across the sky´ — All magnificent amber night time orb shine detail doodles — GLEAMING! 

But still I´m left afraid — Standing on the edge … last time ´IT´ happened made me hit the roof so hard I was glad I was standing in room. So now I´ve got these fragments of this ceiling in my hair — Which if I´m real and talking true — I´d like to say, it has always from the start been this way. 

Flakes from my head I can´t shake loose… 

Leaving me head shakey high in an animal magic zoo.